Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

𝅘𝅥𝅮 Pressure to learn from being alone 𝅘𝅥𝅮

Laura Lee spent most of her childhood alone. It’s what she was used to.

She never had any siblings. Her parents always dreamed of having two or three kids, but Laura Lee seemed to get in the way of their dream by simply existing. Her parents deemed her “almost too much to handle” all on her own, so another kid would have pushed them over the cliff.

Laura Lee had trouble making friends. She tried. She tried harder than anyone else in her kindergarten class, but nothing seemed to stick.

By third grade, Laura Lee started to believe something was wrong with her. Not because anyone told her directly — but because she was the only one who spent every recess swinging alone, watching the other kids grouped in clusters.

Go to school, pay attention, eat lunch alone, swing alone, pay attention, go home.

Laura Lee is fifteen when she tries out for the soccer team. She had only ever played during gym, but her teachers used to say she was good.

Still, she was shocked to find out she made varsity.

Laura Lee still did not consider herself to really be friends with any of the girls. There was an understanding that she was always slightly on the outside of everything, but soccer gave her structure. Something to belong to. Even if no one called her a friend, they still passed her the ball.

The girls don’t outright exclude her, at least not during practice. Mari tends to sit next to her on the bus rides to away games and Van always shares her granola bars with her when she has extra. Laura Lee mentioned once that they were her favorite and apparently Van had remembered.

Most people are hard to read, but Lottie is harder than most.

Lottie doesn’t talk much during practice, like most people assume she would, but when she does, people listen. Laura Lee notices that. She notices a lot of things no one else seems to.

Once, after a game where they lost badly, Laura Lee was the last one in the locker room. She’d taken too long in the shower, too long changing. She only made one mistake, but she felt like she let them down either way.

When she came out, Lottie was still there, sitting on the bench, tying her shoes like she wasn’t in any rush to leave.

“You run like you’re chasing something no one else can see,” Lottie said without looking up.

Laura Lee didn’t know how to respond. She still doesn’t. The words have echoed in her head ever since.

She thinks about that moment sometimes, when she’s lying awake in her room long after she’s supposed to be asleep. She replays it, tries to decode it, and wonders if it was meant as a compliment or an insult. She isn’t sure.

𝅘𝅥𝅮 Pressure to act the right way around 𝅘𝅥𝅮

Laura Lee never knew the right thing to say.

She would open her mouth, words ready, and then the silence after felt heavier than the words themselves.

She said it too soon. Or too late. Or too quietly. Or maybe they just didn’t like her.

The girls on the team had a rhythm. Inside jokes, a language made up of looks and gestures and words that meant something different than their dictionary meaning. Laura Lee wanted to join in. She wanted to understand.

But she never knew when to laugh, or how much.

Once, when someone made a joke about Coach, Laura Lee repeated the punchline a second too late. The laughter had already moved on. The girls looked at her like she had stolen something that wasn’t hers.

She tried mirroring them. If Mari leaned against the locker, Laura Lee leaned too. If Jackie crossed her legs on the bench, Laura Lee crossed hers. She thought maybe if she could line herself up just right, they wouldn’t notice how wrong she was.

It never worked.

Sometimes she went too far. She would offer up something earnest, something she thought might make them feel better. But it landed wrong. Fell flat. Made the air turn sharp around her.

And once the words were out, she couldn’t call them back. They hung there like smoke, impossible to gather up again.

Most days felt like that. She spoke, and it came out slanted. Crooked. Never quite what she meant. Sometimes she wondered if she even knew what she meant.

Compliments were the worst. She never knew how to respond, and it made her seem ungrateful. She wasn’t. She wasn’t good at giving them back either.

The time she told Van she was beautiful in the eyes of the Lord, Van’s half-smile looked like she was holding back laughter. It stung. Laura Lee wasn’t sure what she’d gotten wrong.

Other times the girls just told her to shut up.

She thought maybe they were right. Maybe she should just stay quiet.

But silence had its own rules too. You could be too quiet, and then they’d accuse you of not caring. Not listening. Not being fun.

Laura Lee didn’t understand how everyone else seemed to know the exact balance. How they said things at the right time, in the right tone, with the right look, and nobody flinched.

She felt like she was always missing some invisible script.

She wanted to ask someone to give it to her.

But she knew, deep down, that no one would.

𝅘𝅥𝅮 Pressure to party, gonna stay in 𝅘𝅥𝅮

Laura Lee is not a fan of parties.

The noise comes from every direction at once. Music that shakes the walls, people yelling over the music, laughter that sounds too sharp. Too loud. The lights feel wrong too—too dim in some corners, too bright in others. She doesn’t know where to put her eyes.

She lasts fifteen minutes before slipping out the back door.

The night air feels cold against her skin, but it’s a relief. Easier to breathe. Laura Lee would choose standing out in the cold for an hour to being in a too hot room and sweating. She leans against the side of the house and closes her eyes, pretending she’s somewhere else. Somewhere quiet.

She thinks she’s alone until a voice says, “You ditched too?”

Laura Lee startles. She opens her eyes to find Mari standing there, holding a half-empty cup.

Laura Lee hesitates. “I just… needed some air.”

Mari shrugs like it’s obvious. “Yeah. Too many people in there. Too sweaty.” She takes a sip from her drink, makes a face, and sets the cup down on the porch. “Beer’s gross, by the way. Don’t let them trick you.”

Laura Lee almost smiles. “I wasn’t going to try it.”

“Good,” Mari says. She sits down on the steps, picking at the chipped paint on the railing. After a moment, she glances up. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Keep to yourself. Like… you’re allergic to people.”

Laura Lee’s first instinct is to apologize. She swallows it down. “It’s just… loud in there.”

Mari huffs, not unkindly. “Fair. It is loud. And stupid.”

They sit in silence for a while. Laura Lee watches her breath curl in the cold air, white and fleeting.

Mari nudges her shoe against Laura Lee’s. “Don’t tell anyone, but I hate these things. The music, the smoke, people spilling drinks on you—it’s gross. I only come because everyone else does.”

Laura Lee looks at her. “Then why stay?”

Mari tilts her head, considering. “Because sometimes it’s fun. Like… if you’ve got the right people with you, also the popularity points. They're good for that."

Laura Lee doesn’t know what to say to that. She never cared much for popularity, she's never experienced it in the first place, but her chest feels warmer than it did a moment ago, and the noise from inside doesn’t press so hard against her.

She doesn’t know why Mari started talking to her, or why she stayed. But she notices the difference.

For the first time, she thinks—maybe this is what having a friend feels like. Having someone to stay with you while everyone else is somewhere else, busy and having fun.

𝅘𝅥𝅮 Pressure to go strike out on your own 𝅘𝅥𝅮

Laura Lee doesn’t know much about dating.

She’s heard people talk about it. She knows Taissa and Van are dating, she picked up on that two weeks into knowing them. She’s seen the way the other girls on the team lean against each other, whispering, laughing, rambling about boys.

After the night at the party, she thinks maybe she finally does.

She has never had a friend before. Not really. And Mari sat with her outside, talked to her like it mattered she was there. That has to mean something.

Laura Lee decides it means she has a crush.

It takes her two weeks to say something. She doesn’t plan it, just blurts it out after practice one day, when they’re both walking to the bus.

“I think I like you,” she says. Her voice feels too loud in the open air.

Mari stops. Blinks at her. “Like me?”

Laura Lee nods, cheeks hot.

Mari exhales slowly, like she’s choosing her words with care. “You’re sweet, Laura Lee. But I don’t… I don’t feel that way. I like you, but as a friend."

It stings. Not sharp, just deep, like pressing on a bruise.

Laura Lee starts to apologize, but Mari cuts her off with a shake of her head. “Don’t. It’s fine. We’re still friends.” She says it with enough certainty that Laura Lee almost believes her. Mari is good at that, being straightforward and to the point. It's nice.

And she realizes later that it’s true. They are still friends.

She thinks about it that night, lying in bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. She waits for the sadness to come. For the hurt. For the ache people always describe when they talk about heartbreak.

But it doesn’t come.

She isn’t heartbroken. She isn’t even disappointed, not really.

She just feels… relieved.

Because Mari is still her friend. Because what she wanted most wasn’t a kiss, or a date, or anything like that. What she wanted was to be close to someone, to know they’d stay.

It takes her a while to admit it, even to herself. What she felt for Mari wasn’t romance. It was the wonder of friendship. And that was enough.

But it makes her wonder—if that wasn’t a crush, then what would it feel like if it was?

She doesn’t figure it out until Lottie.

It happens slowly, almost without her noticing. The small moments. The way Lottie looks at her during practice, the calm that settles over Laura Lee when they sit together in silence, the strange comfort in words that never feel wrong when she talks to Lottie.

When Lottie tells her she likes her, Laura Lee finally understands.

It isn’t the same as Mari. It isn’t the same as friendship. It’s something steadier. Something she wants to hold on to and feel in the parts of her soul nothing has ever touched.

Laura Lee doesn’t know how to explain it. But she knows enough to say yes.

And that’s how it begins.

𝅘𝅥𝅮 Pressure to not let the inside of my mind spill onto the floor 𝅘𝅥𝅮

Laura Lee feels too much.

She always has. Every sound, every look, every word. She takes it all in and it piles up inside her like storm clouds.

It’s a Tuesday. They are doing drills in practice, just a simple passing exercise. She knows the steps. She’s done them a thousand times.

But when she starts, her foot slips. The ball rolls past her. Someone sighs. A laugh. Not mean, not cruel, just… noticing.

And suddenly it’s all too much.

Her chest squeezes. The air feels like glass in her throat. She can’t breathe right.

She runs. She doesn’t even think about it—just turns and bolts for the locker room, cleats clattering against the hallway tile.

By the time she reaches the door she’s already shaking. She collapses onto the bench, palms pressed to her forehead. She’s buzzing, sparking, like her whole body is full of static.

She doesn’t have the words. She never has the words.

She starts hitting her head with the heels of her palms. Once, twice, three times. The sharp sting grounds her for a second, but it doesn’t stop the pressure.

She used to do this when she was little, when the schedule changed at school without warning, when someone raised their voice at her at church, when the world spun out of her control. Her parents told her to stop. They didn’t understand. She didn’t either. She just knew she couldn’t stop it.

The noise from the field feels like it’s still in her skull, echoing. Her breath comes short and fast, her hands trembling.

The door creaks.

“Laura Lee?”

It’s Lottie. Her voice is quiet, like she’s standing at the edge of a cliff.

“I’m here,” Lottie says softly. “I’m not going to touch you.”

Laura Lee shakes her head, squeezing her temples. “Go away.” It comes out cracked, not angry but desperate.

“I can, if you want,” Lottie says, still not moving closer. “Or I can just sit here. I won’t touch you.”

Laura Lee slides down the locker, her back against the cool metal, eyes squeezed shut. Her palms press to her forehead again. She can feel the bruised spots from where she hit herself. She hates that she still does this. She hates that she needs it.

Her breath hitches. A sound escapes her—a soft, broken noise she didn’t mean to make.

“It’s okay,” Lottie murmurs. “You’re okay. You don’t have to talk.”

Laura Lee curls forward, hands over her ears, shutting out the echoing world. She doesn’t know how long she sits like that. The storm inside her chest keeps rolling, but slowly, slowly, it begins to fade.

When she finally lifts her head, Lottie is still there, sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet away, eyes steady, waiting.

Laura Lee doesn’t say anything. She just stares at the floor, breathing hard.

Lottie moves to sit closer beside her, still not touching her, but close enough that Laura Lee could grab her hand if she wanted. And she does. She reaches for Lottie's hand and squeezes softly. Lottie squeezes back. 

𝅘𝅥𝅮 Pressure to come up with conversation 𝅘𝅥𝅮

Laura Lee doesn’t always have the words.

Some days, they stick. Some days, they disappear entirely, like smoke slipping through her fingers.

They’re on the couch, a movie playing low on the TV. The credits roll, but neither of them moves. Lottie’s shoulder presses lightly against hers. 

“I love you,” Lottie says, soft and certain. They have been dating for eight months now but neither of them have said it before.

Laura Lee freezes. Her throat closes. She opens her mouth, closes it again. The words don’t come to her. She hasn’t been non-verbal around Lottie before, not fully, but there have been moments. Small ones, when the noise of the world presses too hard or the feelings inside her swell and she can’t manage to get words out. This feels like one of those moments.

She chews on the inside of her cheek, taps her foot against the couch cushion, twists the edge of her sleeve. Anything to move while the words stick somewhere unreachable.

Then her eyes land on her notebook on the coffee table beside the couch. Her pen feels heavy in her hand, but she lifts it anyway. Slowly, carefully, she writes:

I love you too.

Her fingers shake slightly as she presses the notebook toward Lottie. Lottie reads it, her expression softening into a gentle smile. 

“You don’t have to say it for me to know,” Lottie murmurs. 

Laura Lee lets out a small breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She leans her head lightly against Lottie’s shoulder. The weight in her chest eases, just a little. A new movie begins to play on the television, some cliche Christmas romance. Neither of them are fully watching anymore, but it's nice to sit in a comfortable quiet.

Words aren’t needed tonight, not between them, anyway.

Laura Lee taps the pen softly against the notebook, tracing the letters she wrote over and over again. Maybe someday she’ll say them aloud.

𝅘𝅥𝅮 Pressure to feel fine after the fact 𝅘𝅥𝅮

Laura Lee doesn’t always know what to do with touch.

Some touches feel like sparks. Some feel like static, crawling under her skin. Some feel overwhelming, and some feel… nothing at all.

She’s lying against Lottie on the bed, blankets tangled around them. Lottie’s hands move carefully, tracing her arms, her back, her sides. The pressure is firm enough to feel grounding. Too soft, and it makes her skin crawl. She flinches at the gentlest brush, the ones that feel like they might slip away, but Lottie notices immediately and adjusts.

Her chest is tight, her heart hammering. She doesn’t hate this, not from Lottie, but she has learned she needs touch that feels real, solid, present. Feather-light grazes make her squirm in ways she doesn't like. Firm, attentive pressure is better.

“You okay?” Lottie murmurs, lips brushing her temple.

Laura Lee nods, gripping the sheets in one hand, pressing the other lightly against Lottie’s side. She lets herself move a little, testing the rhythm, finding what feels right. Lottie follows, matching her pace, adjusting the pressure.

Sometimes she flinches, sometimes she arches, sometimes she still stiffens when a touch surprises her. But Lottie adjusts, responds, and doesn't rush. She reads every breath, every gesture, every pulse of tension, and lets Laura Lee lead.

When it’s over, they lie together, tangled in blankets and soft light. Laura Lee can feel the echo of every touch lingering in her skin, a mix of overstimulation, relief, and something tender she can’t name yet. She closes her eyes, breathing slowly, trying to untangle all the sensations.

“You okay?” Lottie whispers again, brushing a loose strand of hair from Laura Lee’s face.

Laura Lee nods. “Yeah… just… feeling it. I’m okay.”

"Okay,” Lottie says. “I love you.”

Laura Lee leans into her, letting herself rest. Finally, it’s enough to feel. Enough to be close to someone who understands the way she experiences the world—how soft touches can unsettle her, how firm, careful pressure grounds her, how intimacy can be both terrifying and comforting, how I love you is more than just words.

𝅘𝅥𝅮 Pressure to not leave it for too long 𝅘𝅥𝅮

Laura Lee is a good girlfriend. She just doesn’t always believe that when things go slightly awry.

They’re on the couch, books and papers scattered across the coffee table. Laura Lee is talking about a passage she’s been reading in the Bible, quoting verses she’s memorized, tracing the lines with her finger. She loves the rhythm, the certainty, the way the words fit together. She thinks about the lessons, the guidance, the comfort it gives her.

Lottie leans back, smirking. “You read that book so much, maybe I should be jealous of it.”

Laura Lee freezes. The smirk, the tone, it could be teasing. Or it could be Lottie pointing out something that actually ticks her off. She can’t tell. Her chest tightens, stomach twisting.

She thinks: I’m boring. I’m annoying. Maybe I’m too focused on God. Maybe I’m letting my obsession with scripture push Lottie away. I’m a bad girlfriend. Maybe this is selfish.

“I—I didn’t mean to…” she murmurs, hugging the bible a little closer, pressing it to her chest like it could shield her from her own guilt.

Lottie tilts her head, frowning slightly, and Laura Lee can’t read her. Is that frown real, or part of the joke? Her brain spirals. Maybe she talks too much. Maybe she’s always talking too much about the Bible. Maybe Lottie is just tired of it. Tired of her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice small.

Lottie reaches across the couch, taking her hand. Warm. Steady. Anchoring. “No, stop,” she says softly. “I’m not annoyed. I’m not frustrated. I like it. I like hearing you get excited about it. I'm sorry. My comment was meant to be silly.”

Laura Lee presses her head lightly against Lottie’s shoulder, still twisting the edge of the Bible. The knot in her chest eases a little, but not fully. She wonders if she’s sinful for taking up so much of Lottie’s attention, for being so absorbed in scripture. Maybe she’s letting her passions override her care for Lottie.

“You really mean that?” she murmurs, barely audible.

“I do,” Lottie says. “I like seeing what excites you. Your passions. Your obsessions. All of it. I like you. All of you.”

Laura Lee lets out a slow breath. She squeezes Lottie's hand against hers, feeling the warmth, the steadiness. She can’t make all the worry go away, not yet, but the tension threads into something lighter, something she can rest in for a moment.

Maybe she’s not perfect at reading people. Maybe she jumps to conclusions. But right now, sitting there with Lottie, hearing the reassurance in her voice, she can let herself believe it, even if just a little.